


Out of the Woods

by roktavor



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Getting Together, Holding Hands, Hospitals, Light-Hearted, M/M, Making Out, Post-Chimera Ant Arc, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roktavor/pseuds/roktavor
Summary: The hand tangled in Shoot’s is broad and tanned with fingers that are shorter and thicker than his. It’s also undeniably familiar, and as he follows the arm to the person attached to it he thinksof courseandoh noall at once.
Relationships: Knuckle Bine/Shoot McMahon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 147





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Found this lying around and polished it up some,
> 
> It was originally part of [To Safety](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17349980), so there are some leftover references to that fic - but it isn't really required reading to understand this one.

Waking up is slow and easy – at least compared to the jolting flare up of almost-panic he’d had when waking up in Knov’s Fourth Dimensional Condominium – which Shoot is grateful for. Here, at least, he catches the too-clean scent of hospital right away.

He remembers how he got here, too. Also a plus. If the brutal fight with a Chimera Ant that put him in this condition in the first place counts as a plus; it feels good, at any rate, knowing that he gave everything he had for once. He’s broken down _some_ kind of wall. All of that helps to quell any alarm he might otherwise feel.

Shoot is content, more than fine with sinking back into sleep.

…Except.

There’s something in his hand.

He’s…holding something. Something that is suspiciously hand-shaped (he knows hands intimately well).

Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that, it’s just that he has no real idea who would be holding his hand or why they would do so. Or whose hand _he_ would be holding. Not when he’s this far out of the woods, danger long behind him, on his way to healing.

Curiosity has him blinking away residual drowsiness to face the jarring stark white of an impersonal hospital room. He squints against the brightness, not-quite adjusted when he looks down toward his hand so he can get this mystery solved and get back to resting –

The hand tangled in Shoot’s is broad and tanned with fingers that are shorter and thicker than his. It’s also undeniably familiar, and as he follows the arm to the person attached to it he thinks _of course_ and _oh no_ all at once.

(…He isn’t sure where the _oh no_ factors in. His anxieties aren’t always so kind as to be specific.)

Because it’s Knuckle sitting at his bedside, closer than strictly necessary and frowning down at the cast on Shoot’s leg. There’s a cut on his cheek accompanied by a fading bruise, but otherwise he looks no worse for wear. Healthy and hale and – and hell, _handsome_ as ever.

Shoot needs to get more sleep.

Still. _Relief_ seeps through him before he even realizes just how _worried_ he was, and then he’s squeezing the hand in his, relishing in its warmth and solidity.

The careful pressure gets Knuckle’s attention, and he turns around so fast that he probably gives himself whiplash. Dark gray eyes go wide and wet when they see Shoot, and Knuckle’s bottom lip quivers. _Oh no_. If Knuckle cries, Shoot is that much more likely to start crying along with him, and then they’ll both be a mess.

But before that happens, Knuckle is on him – leaning close, closer, too-close so he can press kiss after kiss _after kiss_ to Shoot’s face, which is –

Shoot is _frozen_ –

Butterflies akin to nerves before a fight erupt in his stomach, and it’s weird to be flustered by something overwhelmingly positive for a change. He has no idea how to react. No idea what to do with himself. It doesn’t help that Knuckle’s lips are softer than he’d ever dared to imagine they’d be, as Knuckle kisses over and around bruises with such gentle force that their comforting intent is impossible to miss.

Shoot makes some kind of surprised noise, he thinks, but Knuckle carries on unfazed.

That plush mouth presses over Shoot’s cheekbones, his chin, his nose, beneath his eyes, across his eyebrows, and even on the bandage wrapped around his head. It’s accompanied by a trail of droplets that Shoot is sure are tears, judging by the way Knuckle’s breath hitches in and out of his nose.

“Knuckle,” Shoot manages to murmur out past the butterflies, while Knuckle is preoccupied with kissing his cheek over and over in a back and forth sort of line.

Then the – the line that Knuckle is kissing across Shoot’s cheek goes a step further, and – and he presses his lips to Shoot’s _mouth_ , and Shoot can’t really remember what he was going to say. If anything. His thoughts go all scrambled with this kiss that’s chaste yet insistent and feels incredibly intimate in a way he can’t place.

“I’m so glad you’re alive!” Knuckle says, once he’s pulled away.

Shoot isn’t capable of doing much aside from staring wide-eyed at Knuckle’s tear streaked face. That hand is squeezing his in a vice, but it’s more of a comfort than a hurt. He does his best to return the squeeze, feeling oddly weak.

Someone clears their throat, then, and Shoot’s attention flies over to the left, following the sound, Knuckle turning in tandem with him.

Oh – damn – Meleoron is sitting there with his mouth upturned in a smirk. As Shoot watches with ever-widening eyes and a tightening chest, he stands up from his seat, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll give you guys a moment, then,” he says, and winks at them before disappearing through the door.

“Th-thanks!” Knuckle calls after him.

Shoot does his best to keep from blushing, but he doesn’t manage to fully quell it, the butterflies going all agitated in his stomach as his face flushes red. His heart is beating so fast, threatening to burst out of his chest any second.

It doesn’t help that despite their newfound privacy, silence lingers between them for a good while afterwards. In the interim, Shoot tries to calm his heart, if not the butterflies.

They should talk, Shoot knows. Should discuss any number of things. The problem is that he has no idea where to start anything resembling a conversation.

With the kiss? Definitely not, he’ll let Knuckle breach that. (Maybe Shoot _is_ still just as cowardly after all.)

With the ‘I’m glad you’re alive’ comment? He can’t very well come out and say that he’s glad Knuckle is alive, too. That’s not the kind of thing he can return just like that, because Knuckle will yell at Shoot for saying it while he’s currently worse off, and then one or both of them might cry again…

Maybe he’ll start with the crying, then? Knuckle does that all the time, it’s nothing new.

In fact, there he goes, starting up again right now. Tears welling up and spilling over as he sniffles – and Shoot accidentally catches Knuckle’s gaze, is instantly captivated by the way those wet eyes bore into his own.

Not sparing it much of a thought – because if he does, he’s sure he’ll lose his nerve – Shoot conjures up a left hand to cup Knuckle’s cheek, thumb brushing away the tears as they slip free. (He’d use his right hand to help, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Knuckle still has hold of it. He doesn’t seem to be letting it go anytime soon, either.)

“Don’t waste your strength,” Knuckle mumbles. His voice is steadfast, albeit with a watery edge, and he’s leaning into the touch despite what he said, face tipped to fit his cheek perfect along Shoot’s palm. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

Shoot knows that Knuckle knows that by now conjuring a hand costs him little to no energy, so as such, he leaves it to do its job of stroking gently beneath Knuckle’s eye. Tries not to be overwhelmed.

In truth, Knuckle’s proximity is causing him something like distress. But it’s such a _pleasant_ kind for once. Makes his insides feel light. _Happy_.

Knuckle lets out a rough laugh that sounds more relieved than amused. “You had me so scared there a few times.”

“Sorry,” Shoot says, because it feels like the sort of thing he should apologize for.

With more vigor than is necessary, Knuckle shakes his head. This dislodges the hand cupping his face, so he presses his own free hand to the back of Shoot’s, holding it close in place. “No, you don’t have to be sorry.” He turns his head a bit, so that his mouth is dangerously close to Shoot’s skin when he adds, “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

 _Oh_.

For a long moment, Shoot does nothing except watch Knuckle.

There’s a shifting nervousness to his expression that usually means there’s more he wants to say that he can’t quite figure out _how_ to say yet. Shoot is content to give him all the time he needs – with the added bonus that it’ll give him extra time to work on calming the rapid-fire pace that his heart has kept up ever since _Knuckle kissed him_. He’s still trying to process that. Doesn’t think he’ll ever fully finish, at this rate.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Knuckle says at length, “again.”

Shoot frowns, lips parting slightly to ask why Knuckle should be sorry at all, let alone why he should be sorry again, but Knuckle doesn’t give him the chance.

“Do you remember that time a few years ago, when we were being chased by that plant thing and you were really hurt?”

A little confused what this has to do with anything, Shoot nods. He still has that scar on his thigh – though, as he remembers it, he wasn’t the only one hurt. Clearing his throat, he forces his roughened voice to produce more than a single word. “And _you_ ruined your knee, twisted your ankle, _and_ got your leg all cut up, but didn’t tell me until _afterwards_ – ”

“And it was _all my fault_ back then, too,” Knuckle speaks over him, sounding far too insistent about that supposed fact. “So I carried you out of there, even though you wanted me to – to leave you behind, an-and I had to pull a risky move, jumping on APR’s head like that, but –”

Knuckle’s looking a little too self-deprecating, and sounding a little too choked up, so Shoot conjures another left hand and sends it to rub his back in the hopes of soothing him. He wants to offer verbal reassurance, too, but the words are stuck in his throat now. Half-formed and not-enough.

“S-stoppit!” Knuckle grumbles, swatting at the hand behind him. “Cut it out, I’m tryna tell you something here – and you’re the one who’s hurt again – stop comforting me!”

Unable to fight off the weak little smile that makes a home on his face at such a typical reaction, Shoot does as requested and removes the hand. It’ll be on standby until it’s needed. _If_ it’s needed. He has a feeling it will be.

“I couldn’t get you to safety this time,” Knuckle mutters, small and dejected.

Well. That’s not entirely fair. Getting all the way to safety wasn’t an option when they had a life-or-death mission to complete first.

…Though Shoot does remember being carried around, more like a sack of potatoes this time than precious cargo – but he knows that the circumstances were vastly different, so he’ll forgive the rough handling. Not that he would’ve held a grudge regardless. If he’s being honest.

“And I had to avenge you, only you weren’t dead so…I realized I didn’t want to lose you, but then you were gone…I messed up too much…” Knuckle breaks off with an aggravated sigh. “Shit, I’m no good at this.”

 _No good at what_ , Shoot doesn’t ask. He bites his tongue instead, and tries to swallow down this misplaced lump in his throat.

After apparently steeling himself, Knuckle says, “What I’m trying to say is that…you mean a lot to me.”

All Shoot can do is _stare_. Getting his heart or his blush or those butterflies in his stomach to calm down – all of that is officially a lost cause.

What’s…what’s Knuckle getting at here? This odd admission, plus the kiss, both seem to imply a certain something that has Shoot’s heart rate spiking further. It’s a wonder none of the medical staff have come to check on him, what with how wild his monitor is going. Thoughts that have been lingering suppressed for _years_ surge back to the forefront.

Shoot doesn’t know what to do. Has no idea what to say.

The abruptly resurfaced memory of his face pressed to Knuckle’s bare chest is not helping.

“I like you,” Knuckle blurts out, after a too-long beat of silence that’s completely Shoot’s fault, “as a friend and more than that.” There’s an endearing blush that spreads over his cheeks, then, and he ducks his head. Shoot makes sure that his hand follows this movement, so as to remain pressed to that warming cheek. “You’re so important,” Knuckle murmurs, “I’m sorry I didn’t really see you until now.”

Oh. Now Shoot really _is_ going to be the one to cry if he isn’t careful. Knuckle is looking at him from beneath dark eyelashes, expression bashful, open, honest, and Shoot _doesn’t know what to do_.

He should say something, probably. Catch his breath and. Speak words.

That was one hell of a confession.

Shoot wants to tell Knuckle that it’s okay – that he’s the one who’s sorry for _hiding_ until now. That, really, he’s probably had a crush on Knuckle ever since he met the open, steadfast man years ago and began to admire him, and that said crush just keeps right on growing no matter how Shoot tries to bury it.

All of that seems like so much. An overwhelming influx that floods his chest but is too dangerous to release just yet, as if he could even get it out past the lump in his throat and through the quivering shape of his mouth in the first place.

His performance under pressure sure is something, he’s discovered very recently, and he’ll have all the time for words _later_ –

So for now, he says, quiet and as steady as he can: “Knuckle. Kiss me again.”

A wide smile breaks over Knuckle’s face at that, fresh tears shining in his eyes, ready to fall. “Sure!” he says with an enthusiastic nod. And so he does, without any ado or preamble – he dips in and presses a firm kiss to Shoot’s mouth.

Shoot barely has time to return it before the contact is gone, Knuckle backing off quick. It’s not enough to sate whatever all this frantic fluttering in Shoot’s chest and stomach means, so he summons another left hand to haul Knuckle in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him _properly_.

Knuckle gasps into his mouth – then redoubles his efforts for a deep, languid kiss that is…

…Way more wet than it should be.

Pulling back just far enough so that he can see Knuckle’s face without going cross-eyed, Shoot studies him. That big, toothy grin is still on his face, even as tears pour from his eyes faster than Shoot’s first left hand can wipe them away.

“Stop crying,” Shoot says, voice trembling, mostly because the all-too-tangible happiness is making him feel too euphoric too fast. Not even the pain medication can compare.

“I’m not crying!” Knuckle insists, scrubbing the sleeve of his free arm across his face. “I’m just,” he pauses to allow a sob to escape, “so happy!”

Okay. That’s – that’s _cute_. Shoot feels his mouth pulling into a soft smile at the ridiculous display. Warmth bleeds into his chest, calming the nervous sensation into something all the more comfortable.

Fondness, probably.

Knuckle notices Shoot’s smile, and makes some kind of gleeful noise in response right before he kisses Shoot a couple more times, sniffling in between. Once he’s apparently had his fill, he collapses half on top of Shoot, burying his face into the pillow above his shoulder.

There were already bags under his eyes, Shoot recalls, but it seems Knuckle has worn himself out with all his tears. That hand retains its strong grip around Shoot’s, though, and he can feel a thumb brushing back and forth. In return he sends both of his left hands around behind Knuckle, one of them to stroke his hair, and the other to rub his back.

“…Are you done crying?” Shoot asks, his smile twitching.

“Shut up,” Knuckle grumbles, halfhearted, “I’ll hit you.”

Shoot is having an impossible time wiping the smile off of his face. Doesn’t really want to, feeling giddy enough to press it into Knuckle’s cheek instead. Warm and soft are descriptors that Shoot is becoming far too accustomed to, the longer he knows Knuckle. It’s the opposite of a problem.

They lay like this for a moment, Knuckle partially atop Shoot and all.

And Shoot would be more than happy to stay this way all night, if it weren’t for the fact that Knuckle’s weight starts to feel less than comfortable on still-healing injuries. Keeping his left hands afloat with nen is also starting to get taxing, a telltale sign that Shoot’s more tired than he thought. So, reluctant as he is to break this closeness, he nudges Knuckle with his shoulder until the other sits back up.

“You look tired,” Shoot tells him, when Knuckle makes a face like he’s about to apologize _again_.

That, predictably, gets Knuckle balking. “ _I_ look tired?! You should see yourself…” His mouth twists into a frown, which only serves to make the bags under his eyes more prominent. And he. Still hasn’t let go of Shoot’s hand. “I’m fine, I’ve survived way worse.”

Shoot levels him with an unblinking stare. Doesn’t bother to say the words that Knuckle must already know he will.

“…” Knuckle averts his gaze, squirming in his seat. “…Fine, dammit.”

That small smile finds its way back onto Shoot’s face.

“But only if you rest, too!” is the stipulation. Knuckle finally drops Shoot’s right hand in favor of standing, and Shoot wonders about that for only half a breath before Knuckle’s got one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back, _lifting_ Shoot a handful of centimeters off the bed to position him closer to the edge.

Reflexively, Shoot’s hand grips at Knuckle’s shoulder as he’s half-carried. “What are you –?!”

Knuckle eases him back down once he’s situated, and reaches up to untangle the hand buried in his sleeve with care. Brushes a kiss over long fingers when he’s done. He’s blushing again, which is fine, because so is Shoot.

“M’gonna rest,” Knuckle explains on a mumble, placing Shoot’s hand back down on the bedsheets, as gentle as if it were made of glass.

As Shoot watches, Knuckle walks around the foot of the bed – and then he’s climbing in _next to_ Shoot, settling under the covers, and Shoot is _all too aware_ of the renewed pounding of his heart, laid plain on the monitor for anyone to see. Thank goodness it’s just the two of them – though that’s – enough –

“Is this okay?” Knuckle asks once he’s settled, rough voice softened at the edges. His fingers are fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

“Yes,” Shoot answers without hesitation, “it’s perfect.” After he says it he can feel his face heating up, but he isn’t about to take it back. Not with Knuckle _smiling_ and _sweet_ like that.

“Good.” Knuckle settles the rest of the way in, then, turning onto his side to face Shoot. “I…want to be close to you,” he admits, flush spreading over his cheeks anew and making him look just as flustered as Shoot feels.

And, oh, the sensation of him, so solid – radiating warmth and comfort and familiarity – is downright elating. Fondness seeps into Shoot’s aches, soothing them and settling him as he tips his head and breathes in Knuckle’s scent. A hesitant hand reaches for him, knuckles bumping his side. A nose nudges at his shoulder, hair tickles his cheek…

Forget the medications – all of _this_ is what helps Shoot fall asleep easier than he has in years.

-

Knuckle is a comfortable weight above Shoot, knees on pressed close on either side of his hips as Knuckle hovers overhead for a kiss. One hand is supporting himself while the other cups Shoot’s face, holding him with feather-light care.

His arm wrapped around Knuckle’s shoulders, Shoot holds himself aloft for easier access, tipping his head to get a better angle when Knuckle pulls back for a breath.

Shoot’s conjured a left hand, too, and at it fiddles with the topmost fastener on Knuckle’s shirt. Waiting. Because Shoot isn’t sure that he’s quite – that he wants to –

This is a _hospital_ –

A plush mouth overlaps his own thinner lips, and he sucks on the bottom one, sighing at the groan Knuckle lets out. The hand on his face strokes down to his neck, Knuckle thumbing at Shoot’s jaw in a circular motion until he takes the hint and opens his mouth that much more.

It’s _nice_ (or more than), this quiet moment.

Waking up to Knuckle huddled at his side with an arm thrown across his torso had been a wonderful reminder that the confession wasn’t just something Shoot had dreamed up under the fog of painkillers. It was real, and now they’re tangled in each other, more or less, another of Shoot’s left hands digging into the shorter hairs at the back of Knuckle’s head, keeping him _close_.

Knuckle lifts up a bit to stare at Shoot’s face, and Shoot _tries_ to focus on those gray eyes – only to ultimately fail when a pink tongue darts out to wet Knuckle’s lips, catching on Shoot’s mouth as it goes.

Re-closing the distance between them with the help of that hand he’s got in dark hair, Shoot follows a burst of confidence and slips his tongue into Knuckle’s mouth.

He gets a throaty whine in return, and Knuckle wraps both arms around him, holding him almost-too-close to keep them both partially upright as he settles in Shoot’s lap. A tongue slides slick over Shoot’s, and then Knuckle _sucks_ , and now _Shoot_ is the one whimpering –

Shoot gives in. Allows his other left hand to pop open two clasps on Knuckle’s shirt and slip inside, where it can rub over a broad chest and a strong collarbone with intent.

It must feel good, because Knuckle grunts. Slips his tongue out of Shoot’s mouth, lips catching with a wet sound as he moves to drop a kiss onto Shoot’s cheek – then goes right back to kissing him in earnest. Deep and thorough and slick and _messy_.

This is not at all what they should be doing while in the hospital, especially Shoot, but he’s having trouble caring at the moment. Literally and figuratively wrapped up in Knuckle as he is.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, Shoot.”

Shoot wrenches his head away at the same time as Knuckle releases him, and he bounces back down to the bed with a gasp.

Morel is standing in the doorway, because _of course_ he is.

When – when did he even get here? How long has he been there _watching_? He’s got his arms crossed as he stares at them with an expression that’s trying to be neutral, his mouth twitching upward at the corners.

Before speaking, Shoot takes a moment to wipe the spit off of his mouth, heat creeping up his face, nerves alight in his stomach. “Ah, um, well – yeah…” is all that he can manage. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Knuckle, who’s turning an impressive shade that puts Shoot’s own blush to shame – he’s never seen a human being get _that_ red before.

“M-Morel-san,” Knuckle stammers, “I – we, we were just –”

Morel’s mouth upturns properly, morphing into a full-on smirk. “About damn time,” he says – which is – _what?_ – and then he turns out the doorway and is gone. Tossing a, “Congratulations you two!” over his shoulder.

And, sure, Shoot feels downright mortified at being caught locking lips like teenagers, by their _mentor_ , no less – how could he _not_ be?

But. The thing is. Knuckle seems to be taking it far worse. He’s still flushed cherry red, all rigid and starting to tremble above Shoot. It shouldn’t be funny. Shoot knows that. He should be sympathetic to Knuckle’s plight, as it’s one he himself has faced countless times before, but…

A laugh bubbles up out of his throat before he can stop it.

“It’s – why are you laughing?!” Knuckle’s voice cracks with outrage, his eyes wide. “It’s not funny!”

Shoot knows that. He _does_. It should be – it is! – embarrassing – _horrifying_ _!_ – but now that he’s started to laugh, he can’t stop. Not even pressing a hand over his mouth helps to stifle anything.

Knuckle is frowning down at him, but his blush is fading somewhat, returning his skin to a healthier shade. There’s a small perplexed furrow between his eyebrows as he stares, and for some reason looking at him just makes the situation funnier.

Shoot has to close his eyes or risk laughing _harder_ –

A giggle sounds from above him. Then another, and then Knuckle is laughing, too, when he says, “I love your smile.”

That is not at all fair. The admission catches Shoot so off guard that his laughter dries right up, and the blush he’d only just managed to will away creeps back onto his face. He opens his eyes only to avert them, overwhelmed by the blatant affection in Knuckle’s gaze.

“Thank you,” Shoot mutters after a second – and then decides two can play at this game. His hand finds Knuckle’s thigh, resting there as Shoot gathers himself and says, “You’re sweet.”

Knuckle makes a choking sound. He lurches forward to wrap Shoot up in strong arms again, face buried in Shoot’s neck and expression hidden. With his mouth pressed to Shoot’s skin, Knuckle’s murmur is muffled –

But it sounds a lot like, “I love you.”

Heart hammering and affectionate warmth rising in his chest, Shoot squeezes Knuckle close.

**Author's Note:**

> These two deserve the world and I'm always crying-
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
